


you belong among the wildflowers

by bogbats



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Forgotten Realms
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Gen, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-10 23:21:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15959723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bogbats/pseuds/bogbats
Summary: Sometimes, people don't become adventurers to chase after revenge or find riches beyond all compare, but because there's a great wild world rambling out on all sides, and somewhere in it lies a better them, a them that will be worthy of their loved ones.





	you belong among the wildflowers

“Rumnaheim Brewing Company would like to thank you for your patronage and your impeccable taste,” Berichraine recites, and pats the smiling gnomish woman’s hand as she turns away, bottle of brew neatly tucked into the crook of her arm. “Please visit us in Mirabar, if you have the chance. Our selection is much better there. You have a lovely day, now!”

She gives almost everyone some same variation of this. It helps to have a script to follow for when she gets anxious, so she doesn’t stumble over her words. Of course, Bartrand would have come up with something a little cleverer, but whenever he drops by to top off her stock, he tousles her hair and tells her the heart is worth more than the wit.

And that’s true, isn’t it? The heart of the Rumnaheim ales will speak for themselves, as they always have. She doesn’t have to speak for them.

It’s nearing midday—squinting at the sun, she’d guess a little earlier than noontime—and the morning rush has dwindled to a few curious-looking passersby perusing things they don’t intend to purchase from a safe distance. She’ll see business pick up again when the day gets late and people come looking for something to carry them through to the morning.

But until then, Beri leans against her stall, smiling, and counts the remaining barrels. 

There are two left for tapping—customers like watching her bottle it right in front of them—and a few dozen bottles of barley wine that Bartrand had sealed back home in Mirabar almost a decade ago. She knows from his last letter that he and Morwen will be arriving any day to deliver a new shipment and settle the finances. Yes; so long as nobody important gets married or passes away before the week’s end, she should have enough. 

She takes a mallet to the seals just in case, pockets heavy with the morning’s income. She has two coinpurses; one laced to the left and one to the right—the right contains her monthly stipend to the guild, and the left is for her clan (this one is a little heftier).

“Hail, Berichraine.”

She straightens with a gasp, jingle-jangling. Svenna, sunkissed and golden, whisks behind her stall and drops down in her seat. “Are you terribly busy?”

“Oh—no!” She thinks of all the logs and letters sitting half-finished, as they do every time Svenna comes to visit, and pushes the thought aside. “No, not—not _terribly_ busy.”

Svenna smiles knowingly and gestures her closer. “Alright, but in the spirit of good will, I won’t keep you for long. Here, I brought you something.”

The fondness in her voice warms Berichraine through, head to toe, better than any Rumnaheim stout (though she won’t say so where anyone might hear!). She sets the mallet aside and tugs a barrel across to sit on. Svenna has unlaced a leather pouch from her side and set it on the tabletop. It jingle-jangles differently than pocketfuls of coin do.

“What is it?”

“Come here and you’ll see, silly.” As Berichraine leans in, Svenna deftly unwraps the twine. “It’s just a little present I picked up coming back from the mines. Nothing extravagant—maybe later we’ll get you something nicer, but for now it was just a selfish idea I had. Go on, look inside.”

Svenna tells her she is nearing seventy—older than her by more than a decade, and Beri thinks she wears the additional years with such grace as to make her ache. Every inch of her bears a tale worth hearing. She can’t word herself right, but like the heart and Rumnaheim ale, it speaks for itself. The stories are in the smile lines on her brow, and in her eyes bright and faceted like gemstones, and in the tales she _does_ tell when she steals Beri from the guild with a picnic basket and a view in mind. 

Svenna is brimming with the same anticipation now, biting into her bottom lip. Berichraine lets herself take it in with hesitantly-unfurling excitement—she hardly believes anything Svenna does for her could be rooted in selfish intent—and pulls the pouch open.

Inside is a tiny double-horned anvil, identical to what her grandsires use for their smithing, but this one is small enough to fit comfortably in her palm. Nestled in the bottom are several equally small files, screwdrivers, pliers, and a single brass-polished pin drill. Berichraine sets each one side-by-side on the stall, where they gleam beautifully in the midday sun.

“I thought, ‘What’s the point of living if you only ever stay in one spot, doing what you already know how to do?’” Svenna says, laughing. “You should step outside your door every once in a while, see what new things have cropped up down the road, isn’t that right?”

Berichraine finally tears her gaze away. “These are jeweler’s tools.”

Svenna nods. “That’s right. The start of a proper set.”

Her heart feels so big, like it won’t fit in the spaces she has for it.

“Svenna, I can’t—I don’t know how to use these. The Rumnaheim clan are brewers, re-remember? I think my cousins and grand-uncles have done gemwork, but it’s more a hobby—”

“Berichraine, that’s the point.” Svenna companionably bumps their shoulders together. “If you mean to strengthen the foundation, first you have to fill in the cracks that are already there with something new, something that won’t break in the same spots. Does that make sense? Why not learn all you can while you’re still young and the world full of adventure? You mountain dwarves and your pessimism, honestly…”

“I am not a pessimist, no more than you are naïve or a braggart,” Beri protests, making Svenna laugh again. It’s a light and breezy sound, warm as a summer day. “And you’re not that much older than me!”

“Still, I’m hardly a dwarf to take home to mother. By the All-Father, imagine what mine would say!—building my foundation in Neverwinter? I’d have surely been cast out for my unconventions.” 

Her smile turns contemplative, as though she’s thought of one of those many tales and it has pleased her all over again. 

“But I don’t regret anything, and neither should you. The world is changing faster than any of us know, Berichraine, even us dwarves. Our clans have lived through so much, but it was a different Faerûn when they were our age; we don’t have to stay the same dwarves that they did.”

“But,” says Beri, frowning.

Svenna wraps an arm around her shoulders and squeezes, the way you might if you were saying, _Don’t worry, Berichraine, everyone mistakenly accuses prominent noblemen of being drunks at least once in their lives! It happens to everyone!_ She feels her face warm.

“Jeweling is a dwarven tradition the same as brewery and stonework,” Svenna reassures her. “You don’t have to pick one and only one to be good at. Your cousins and grand-uncles didn’t.”

“I know! I just… I mean, um, are you going to teach me the craft?” Beri touches the wire flower pinning back her hair; another gift from Svenna. Homemade. Beautiful.

“Maybe a little,” Svenna relents, laying a finger alongside her nose. She turns to look at her, arm still light across the back of her shoulder, and smiles. “I _am_ quite good, but I’m not the only jeweler along the Sword Coast. Certainly not across all of Faerûn! You might find many incredible mentors, should you look for them. Don’t you think?”

And she’s filled with so much feeling for her friend-who-she-loves-very-much that Beri hears herself say, without a moment’s hesitation, “Where should I look?”


End file.
